


Semi-Charmed Life

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: All Ends Well In The End, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5922439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one is recruited by the KGB, the world’s most effective information-gathering organisation, you are expected to show your loyalty to the agency and to your country. Any other than that would be considered an act of treason, a betrayal that only deserves the most severe of punishment.</p><p> </p><p>The one where Illya is in trouble and Napoleon tries to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semi-Charmed Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Susangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susangel/gifts).



Illya blinks as he tries to take in his surroundings. He tries to move but realises he is immobile. 

As his blurry vision comes to focus, he sees there are two men in that room where he is being held. The room, with steel wall partitions, is not a particularly big room, and Illya figures he is in some kind of industrial warehouse. He tugs at the rope, tests the bindings on his ankles and wrists to the wooden chair, which in turn is anchored to the concrete floor, and discovers the knots done are impressive enough. He could try to break free but he knows he needs to assess the situation he is in first, could not risk trying to escape, not just yet. 

The last thing he remembered before he was taken, he had been in his hotel room in Brussels after completing a successful mission with his partners and he is not sure how he had ended where he is. And what of Napoleon and Gaby? It worries him immensely that he does not know where they are or whether they are safe. 

“You’re awake, Kuryakin.”

Illya’s face darkens. Despite the haziness of the situation, one thing he knows for certain is the man currently talking to him is a former KGB agent he recognises during his days in his former organisation. The man, with a gun in his hand, whose name is Dimitri Romanov, starts to move towards him. 

“You know why you are here?” he says to Illya in Russian.

Illya just deadpans and gives him a bored look. This somehow irks Dimitri. 

“When one is recruited by the KGB, the world’s most effective information-gathering organisation, you are expected to show your loyalty to the agency and to your country, comrade. Any other than that would be considered an act of treason, a betrayal that only deserves the most severe of punishment.”

Hearing Dimitri rant, Illya can’t help but remember the time when he had first met the man. 

At the time he had joined the KGB, Dimitri Romanov, a proud loyalist to his country, was already an established KGB operative. His efficiency and capabilities had made him one of the more respected agents and he had been touted to achieve greater heights. But somehow, they had overlooked him for Illya, their youngest ever recruit, and the accolades for the younger Russian soon overshadowed Dimitri’s accomplishments. This had made Dimitri envious, angry, and it began to affect his work. A major slip up in one of his missions had cost the lives of his team members, and also a permanent injury to himself; a limp to his right leg. And that grave mistake had led to Dimitri’s immediate dismissal from the organisation. 

“You are blaming me for what happened to you,” Illya says and Dimitri just scoffs.

“I want to blame a lot of things for my misfortune, but you, you are the catalyst, Kuryakin. You started it all.”

“It was your own mistake. Not mine.”

“Yes, perhaps, and I am being punished for it now, but you? After what you did? You get away too easily. And this is not fair, my friend.”

Illya’s mind immediately raced. What was Dimitri talking about? What had he done to Dimitri? But before Illya could get more out of him, the man was already kneeling in front of him. Illya notices the slight difficulty he’s having with his bad leg.

“You need to be punished, Kuryakin.”

Illya glances at Dimitri’s face again. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice low and even. 

“You failed us. You failed Oleg.”

The mention of his former handler’s name set alarm bells ringing in Illya’s head, brings him back to Rome, the last assignment Illya had under Oleg. But that affair had been months ago, the Vinciguerra mission something he had put behind him, and now Illya curses himself because he had been complacent. Of course, Oleg and the KGB would not let him go that easily. Especially after what he had done.

“Is Oleg behind this?” Illya asks, the anger in him reverberates as he tries to maintain his calm. He does not want Dimitri to know the chaos running in his mind. 

“Do not be foolish. Oleg will not condone an act such as this although he would not mind it if he knows. He will only turn a blind eye on this, that fool.”

Yes, to Dimitri, Oleg is just an old fool who had failed to see the bigger picture. If he had mentored him instead of Illya, none of this mess would have happened. He had deserved the accolades more than Illya and yet he was cast to the sidelines. Now who is paying the price? 

No. Illya Kuryakin, the unpatriotic traitor of Mother Russia, definitely needs to be punished.

“You see, I still keep in touch with people in the intelligence community, so I know what you had done.”

“You working with rogue KGB agents?”

Illya shoots his suspicion and Dimitri only guffaws. He leans closer towards Illya, lets out a menacing snarl. “You are not so stupid like you look. A shame you decide to make yourself a fool for a British man and his cohorts.”

Illya knows Dimitri is talking about UNCLE and he could feel fear start to take over him, fear that the people he has learned to care about being in danger as well.

“You will not get away with this,” Illya hisses. 

“We shall see, Kuryakin.”

Before Illya could say anything else, the other man in the room suddenly strides over to Dimitri and Illya somehow deduces Dimitri is the ringleader, the mastermind behind his captivity. He sees the man whisper something in Dimitri’s ear and then his eyes, gleaming with delight, are at once upon Illya. 

“It looks like we’ve found your partner. And I’m so happy he will join us.”

Illya immediately tenses.

_He? Your partner?_

It’s Napoleon. Dimitri is talking about Napoleon. And that little bit of information elevates the fear in Illya’s heart, but he tries to stay focused, tells himself that nothing is going to happen to Napoleon, or to him. Everything will turn out all right, although he feels his mouth go dry and his heart starts hammering hard against his chest. 

 

***

 

Napoleon groans. 

He knows it had been a mistake trying to save Illya on his own. And even though he had let Gaby know of his plans, she had protested vehemently, tells him Waverly would be unhappy at his decision to jump the gun. But once he had learned of Illya’s location, he had to go to him, had told Gaby he could not wait any longer, feels Illya is in danger enough. The longer they waited, Napoleon knows the chances of him finding the Russian unharmed is lessened. And he simply could not bear it if anything were to happen to Illya. Like it or not, he has become too fond of his Russian friend and despite Gaby’s protests, Napoleon had gone ahead with his lone rescue plan. Although he does not regret his decision, he wishes he had better luck. Because he is now being dragged along a darkened corridor after being jumped upon and hit on the head by an unknown assailant, and his fuzzy mind hopes and prays that Gaby would be smart enough to alert Waverly and his cavalry of his intentions. At least, whatever he is doing currently won’t be a hopeless cause. If he becomes a casualty, there is still a chance of them finding Illya.

His wandering thoughts are cut short when those large, strong hands gripping his shoulders starts pushing him against a brick wall, bangs his head hard against the brickwork. Napoleon had to focus on not letting his knees buckle underneath him, as he unsteadily props himself upright. But as his captor got up close, a forearm pushes him hard against his throat, pinning him against the wall. 

Napoleon tries to see past the semi-darkness, tries to identify the man or men on him, but he could not see anything. He could hear voices, though, angry hissing voices, and soon hands are on him, searching him for any kind of weapons. He is about to protest, maybe say something clever to distract them, but he is quickly pulled away from the wall, hands grabbing at his shirt, then pushed towards an open door leading to another room. His arms are pulled tight behind him and the man holding him in that vice grip hits his head hard against the door frame on the way into the next room. He groans at the contact, immediately feels a warm trickle of blood on his temple. Napoleon tries to struggle but is pushed harder, faster than he is able to walk.

“Where are you taking me?” he manages to ask despite the throbbing pain in his head but all he gets in return is a nasty punch at the back of his head. 

Now, the other room they are in is better lit than the corridors he had been roaming and he sees immediately that there is actually one man on him, a well-built man as tall as Illya, whose arms could easily snap him into half if given the chance. Napoleon shudders, wonders whether he will survive the night. Then, before he could focus on his thoughts, he is thrown forward until his knees hit the concrete floor, his hands breaking his fall. He groans and looks up as he lands and blinks. And then he sees him.

Illya.

Illya is there in the room. He is tied to a chair with blood running down his left cheek. There is also a slight cut on his lower lip. Other than that his partner looks fairly all right, and what Napoleon is most thankful for is he is conscious. 

“Are you all right?” Napoleon asks at once.

Illya nods. “You doing okay, Cowboy?”

“Never been better, Peril.”

“Pet names for each other, how very endearing to hear this.”

The little exchange of words between the two partners is interrupted. 

Illya’s eyes on Napoleon tell him to play along with this man, whoever he is Napoleon has no idea. Dimitri, at once realising what Illya is trying to do, walks right up to Napoleon, and despite him having a limp, Napoleon notices that he moves pretty fast. He stops when he is right in front of him, strategically blocking Illya from his line of sight. Napoleon sees his knuckles are bloody and a flash of anger runs through him knowing those hands had hit Illya. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” Napoleon asks, eyes up on the man who is sniggering down at him. 

“Who I am is not important. What I want to do with you and my friend Kuryakin, here, might interest you better.”

“We are not friends,” Illya growls, tries to lunge forward but is held back quickly by Dimitri’s men. Dimitri, hearing Illya’s protests, straightaway turns to his fellow Russian behind him and taps his cheek.

“Oh come now, Kuryakin. Of course, we are friends. You forget our time in KGB? How sad.”

As Dimitri taunts Illya, it then dawns on Napoleon what the entire thing is all about. Based on the note they had retrieved in Illya’s room when he had gone missing, Napoleon had suspected that Illya had been taken by his former comrades but there had been no clear-cut proof. Why they had taken him though is still left unanswered and Napoleon needs to find it quick.

“Okay, so now I know you are KGB. You had answered my question even if you’d said it is not important. Obviously, you’re not a very smart man, whoever your name is. All I need to know now is what is it that you want to do to us.”

“Solo, don’t,” Illya warns Napoleon, knows his partner is trying to distract Dimitri from himself. And it clearly worked, for Dimitri’s attention is once again on the American. 

Illya shakes his head at Napoleon as if trying to tell his partner not to do anything stupid. Whatever happens, Illya wants them to make it out of that place unharmed. But Napoleon, he has other ideas in his head, despite the quietly frantic look Illya was giving him.

“You want to tell us now, champ?”

Dimitri scoffs. “You, Napoleon Solo, the man with the smart mouth. The man who managed to tame KGB’s so called best agent.”

Hearing that, Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at Dimitri and grins.

“Impressive, right?”

Before Napoleon knows anything, he is backhanded hard across the face. The sharp blow makes him fall forward, his hands again breaking his fall against the floor. Blood drips from his mouth. He flexes his pained jaw, tries to look up again but the man behind him is already pulling Napoleon up on his feet. He barely registers Illya’s shout as he is hit again and again and then everything starts to fade. 

His vision. 

The sound around him. 

The man, who was doing the hitting, has somehow managed to drag Napoleon’s body back towards a chair which is a feet opposite of Illya, and soon he is tied to it, with ropes around his wrists and ankles, mirroring his partner’s predicament. After Dimitri is satisfied the rope on Napoleon would hold, he signals his men to stand back. Then, he grips Napoleon’s hair, pulls his head back. Napoleon cannot help but groan, grimaces at the pain he is feeling.

“He has nothing to do with this! It’s me you want, not him! You hit me! Not him!” 

The rage in Illya throbs in his veins, the shake of his hands visible now. He tugs forcefully at his bonds, hears the chair creak underneath him but Dimitri’s men hold him back, their hands rough on his arms and shoulders, guns trained on his head. He grits his teeth when Dimitri flashes him a vile smile.

“You’ll get your turn, Kuryakin. For now, I focus on your partner.”

Napoleon is hit again and again, vaguely hears Illya’s curses and what suspiciously sounded like pleadings, before he completely blacks out.

 

***

 

“Why did you come here?”

Napoleon has regained consciousness. Dimitri is kneeling before him for the umpteenth time and Napoleon only grins at his question, baring his reddened, blood stained teeth. 

“Like I said before, to get my partner back,” he answers defiantly between sharp gasps.

“Your partner you say?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear me the first time, pal?”

Dimitri stands, paces a few times, walks back towards Napoleon and when he is close enough, he pulls his fist back and then punches Napoleon hard on the jaw. Then, Dimitri turns towards Illya, who is eyeing him with a murderous look. Napoleon knows that look well enough. If Illya were to break free from the ropes binding him to that chair, Dimitri will be a dead man. 

“You defend this man instead of your own country?” Dimitri shouts before he slaps Napoleon again. 

Illya strains forward in his bonds, growls at his countryman. He feels the chair shifts, he hears the creak, knows the chair could snap if he tries again, but he holds back. Dimitri still holds the upper hand on them and Illya does not want to jeopardise Napoleon’s life. 

“I will kill you, I swear,” he mutters, the venom dripping in his voice. 

“Don’t think so, Kuryakin.”

Napoleon’s head is hung loosely between his shoulders now, almost losing consciousness again. But he still has the gall to taunt Dimitri. 

“He will do it, you know. Not a good idea to antagonise him.”

Dimitri shrugs at Napoleon’s words and then gives Illya a thoughtful look. Impressive as he had been, he had only known Illya by reputation, had never seen Illya in action during his time in the KGB. And from what he had heard, he thinks, maybe, it would be actually good to listen to his American captive, for now. 

Speaking in rapid Russian, Dimitri orders his men to leave the room which they promptly obey and then he turns at the two tied up men.

“I will leave you both alone for a few minutes to catch up before I come back to kill you both.”

He taps both men on their shoulders before leaving them alone in the room.

Once Dimitri is gone, Illya immediately addresses his beaten up partner.

“Cowboy, you okay?” 

“I’ve had better days, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs. “Who the hell is this friend of yours anyway?”

“He is not a friend!” Illya shouts, trembles in anger at the idea of Dimitri being his friend. After what he had done to Napoleon, that man deserves nothing but to die. “He is Dimitri Romanov, Cowboy. Former KGB agent. And he is definitely not my friend!”

“Okay, I get it, Peril. He’s not. I’m sorry.”

Letting out a shuddery breath, Illya’s eyes quickly soften on his partner. The ugly bruises have started forming on the American’s cheeks, his left eye almost swollen shut from the countless beatings he had received from Dimitri and his men, and he has a bloodied forehead and temple. Illya wants to reach out, wants to soothe his thumbs on Napoleon’s injured face. To think he had caused him pain, had been the reason for Napoleon’s predicament, makes Illya feel sick to the bones.

“Why did you come here, Cowboy?”

Napoleon almost wants to laugh at Illya’s idiotic question. 

“Because it’s the natural thing to do? Because you’re my partner? Because we have each other’s back no matter what? What kind of a question is that, Peril?”

“But you trying to save me and then you get yourself caught? You need to plan better next time, Cowboy!”

Napoleon knows Illya is right. Of course, he had to plan his actions, which in truth he did not do. He had acted on pure instincts alone. If Illya knows he had disobeyed Waverly’s orders, Napoleon would not hear the end of Illya’s angry ramblings. But he would do it time and again just to save the Russian Red Peril. 

“Gaby’s worried about you.”

Illya, who was eyeing Napoleon intently, closes his eyes. 

He knows that is true, could picture the look on Gaby’s face, her eyes wide with fear and the way she chews her lips whenever she worries, but then, what Illya is left thinking at the moment is how Napoleon had reacted when he had found him missing. Did the American worry as how he would have if he were to find Napoleon gone, with nothing to tell him of his whereabouts? Illya thinks he might go insane if that were to happen.

“You are a fool, Cowboy,” he then says. 

“That makes the two of us, Peril.”

“Why am I a fool in this??” Illya asks, indignant. 

“Because you have psychos for comrades!”

Illya groans loudly then leans back in his binds, shakes his head at the ridiculous predicament they are in. 

“Illya.”

Napoleon’s voice pulls Illya’s attention on his partner once again.

“Don’t worry. I have your trackers on me. Gaby will find us soon. Let’s hold on a little bit longer.”

Yes, Gaby will find them. She always finds them. She has to. And Illya knows she will. But he worries if she will find them too late.

“They are out for revenge against me, not you, Cowboy. But look what they have done to you. They are doing this to you to get to me.” 

Illya’s voice is full of regret.

“It’s okay, Illya. I can take it. Besides, we’re partners. You know I can’t let them get to you. I can’t. And you would have done the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, I would. You cannot question me on that.”

Napoleon smiles. “So why did you question me, Illya? For the same reasons, you’d do the exact same thing.”

Something flares in Illya’s heart right at that moment. He wants to say, _‘it’s okay if it’s me, Cowboy, but not you. Never you.’_ , tries to think of reasons why he had wanted to say it. And Napoleon, at that moment manages to read Illya’s mind. 

“You think it’s okay for you to do it, but not if it’s me, am I right?”

Illya freezes. 

He knows this is not the time for them to get sentimental on each other, this not the time for heartfelt confessions or daunting realisations, but the look on Napoleon’s face, the rapid beating of his own heart tells Illya that perhaps he should have told Napoleon what he feels for the American a long time ago. Not now when their fates are hanging by the thinnest of threads. 

Suddenly, the moment between them is broken when Dimitri and his men walk into the room. 

Illya looks around at them, as if suddenly unsure, for the first time, what their outcome would be. As he sees them talking, Illya turns to Napoleon whose eyes are bright on him, and his heart is suddenly in his throat. Napoleon cannot say it now, he must not. 

“Illya, if we do not make it out of this alive, I just want you to know—”

Illya cringes. Napoleon just had to do it.

“Shut up, we are not having this conversation now,” he mutters.

“But, look, what I want to say is I—”

“Shut up, Solo! This is not the time for this,” Illya says, and then pleads. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“I say shut up!” Illya exclaims more forcefully, desperate for Napoleon not to say anything, not now because it’s not the time nor place for any confessions, and then finally, Napoleon snaps his mouth shut.

“We do not have much time. Let’s finish this now, shall we?”

The slight urgency in Dimitri’s voice perks Illya’s attention. Could it be that Gaby and team are already here and he and his men are aware of their presence? 

“Untie him.”

At his command, the same man who had been manhandling Napoleon steps forward towards them and soon was on his partner once again, undoing the ropes binding him to the chair. When Illya sees this, he starts to struggle.

“What are you going to do?!”

Dimitri only sniggers. “You will see.”

Illya panics. That look in Dimitri’s eyes tells him something he does not want to know. 

“Don’t you dare touch him!”

Illya makes it sound like he is some damsel in distress, which embarrasses Napoleon a little. He tries to warn Illya to be a little discreet, does not want that man to take any hints that whatever jumbled emotions they are feeling at the moment could be turned against them. No, Napoleon does not want that. So he tries to remain stoic, unperturbed. 

But Dimitri, somehow catches on listening to Illya’s frantic cries. He gives him a good laugh and then orders his men to bring Napoleon to the middle of the room where he is currently standing.

“You will see this, Kuryakin. I will let you suffer for a few minutes and after I am done with your friend, it will be your turn.”

Once Napoleon is free from the chair, he flops forward but hands are quick to prevent him from falling, and unceremoniously, he is then dragged again to the middle of the room. The goon holding him secure, hooks his arms underneath Napoleon’s and then hoists him to his feet. 

“Mr. Solo. It’s a pity this pretty face will not grace this world anymore. But perhaps before I kill you, I will show Kuryakin what he should really do with this mouth of yours.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen for a moment, thinks he knows what Dimitri is about to do. He struggles. The man behind him has a firm grip on him and Dimitri, now, in front of him, starts to close the gap between them. His eyes Napoleon up and down, turns to smile at Illya again before grabbing Napoleon’s jaw hard in one hand. 

He turns Napoleon’s face, first to the left and then to the right, grinning at the obvious injuries on the American, the bruises, the almost dried blood on the side of his temples. He seems to be rather proud of his work, Napoleon thinks. 

“Despite the mess on your face, you are still a pretty boy, Solo. No wonder Kuryakin here left KGB for you,” he whispers in Napoleon’s ear. 

As soon as he finishes saying that, Dimitri leans in and licks at the turn of Napoleon’s jaw, at his neck, and then finally, stops at the corner of Napoleon’s bloodied lips, much to Napoleon’s horror. He winces and recoils at the unwanted touch, tries his best to turn his head away but the vice grip on his arms and Dimitri’s hand on his face meant Napoleon had to endure the humiliation even if his head is screaming at what was being done to him.

But Illya, he cannot endure it. He cannot stand looking at what’s currently happening right in front of his eyes. To what those vile men are doing to his partner. And to his horror, Dimitri’s mouth and hands start to roam further south of Napoleon’s body. Illya loses it. 

No. No. _No!_

He sees red.

With one loud roar, he charges forward, hard enough until he breaks free from the rope binding him and the chair just snaps into half. The man who is holding him back is taken by complete surprise at Illya’s sudden show of rage, and he did not have enough time to react. Illya’s lightning speed and total accuracy meant his captor’s right arm, which had the gun trained on Illya the entire time, is hit hard enough, dislodging the weapon from his grip, sent it reeling down to the floor, and he cries in pain as his arm is sprained and before he could do anything else, Illya delivers a devastating head butt to the man’s forehead, dropping him instantly to the floor with a loud cry. As the man tries to hobble up, Illya pulls him to his feet, puts an arm around his neck in a strong chokehold, before snapping his neck in one clean break. 

Startled that Illya had managed to break free, Dimitri swings at Illya, moves for his former comrade but Illya is ready for him. He pushes Dimitri’s dead henchman towards him. Dimitri’s hand had been reaching for the gun on his holster before Illya’s quick thinking had thrown him off from his attack, and during that split second, Illya managed to deal a hard blow on Dimitri’s kneecap, the one on his bad leg, using the broken chair and a sort of snapping sound was heard, together with Dimitri’s howl of pain. Before he could drop to the floor, Illya’s hands grab hold of his shirt, so that they are on eye level. 

“I’ll kill you now,” Illya growls in his face and then a hard fist lands on Dimitri’s jaw, a strong knee to his midriff drops Dimitri to his knees. 

While Illya and Dimitri are slugging it out, Napoleon had taken the opportunity to free himself from his stunned captor, who had loosened his grip on him. He kicked the man on his shin and then kneed him hard in the groin, that move sending the man sprawling to the ground. Despite his head still in a groggy mess, he had managed to knock the man out by crunching his boot a couple of times on the man’s face. 

After checking the unconscious man clear of any weapon, he shakes his head, blinking his eyes as if trying to clear his hazy vision. Then, Napoleon turns towards Illya.

He sees his partner raining punches on Dimitri, hitting him brutally on the head. 

“Illya!” Napoleon cries out. He knows Illya is perfectly capable of ending Dimitri’s life at that moment but he does not want him to, not if it could be avoided. The mess with Dimitri’s men is bad enough.

“Illya, wait! Stop!”

For a brief moment, Illya’s eyes stray on Napoleon who is moving towards him and Dimitri. One hand still grabbing a fistful of Dimitri’s shirt, the other bloodied fist still aimed perfectly at Dimitri’s head, Illya then stops. 

“Maybe we don’t want to do this, yeah?” Napoleon says with a gentle pleading tone. “Let UNCLE decide what we need to do with him.”

Throwing another good punch on Dimitri’s head, Illya then lets him slump to the floor in front of him. “He deserves to be in more pain, Cowboy.”

“I know. But you’re better than that, Peril. You’re not him.”

Napoleon grabs Illya’s bloodied hand slowly, pulls him away from Dimitri so that he could check his partner’s injured hand. “You okay?”

“I should be asking you that, you look terrible.”

Despite the jarring pain in his jaw and the throbbing in his head, Napoleon smiles at Illya’s sentence. But the smile quickly dies down when Illya cups his face, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on his bruised cheekbones with the tips of his fingers on his neck, on the spot where his pulse is suddenly rabbiting underneath his skin. He has seen this side of Illya before, his gentle caring side, whenever Gaby or himself get injured during their missions, but this time around, it is something else. It is more than that.

“You had me worried, Peril. Don’t go missing again?” Napoleon manages to say after a second or two. 

Illya only stares at Napoleon. It must have been mere seconds but it felt a lot longer to Napoleon. His body is tensed with anticipation, of what he does not know, and then, suddenly, his body jolts. Not because of Illya leaning into him like he is about to kiss him, not because of Illya’s hands on him, but because of a searing pain that hits the left side of his back, just underneath his shoulder blade. He slumps forward towards Illya, his eyes wide and then his face goes slack. 

“Peril—”

The next thing Napoleon hears, is a blood-curdling shout, a scream of anger and anguish. Napoleon falls to the ground in a heap. Illya had let him go from his hold, and Napoleon can’t see him anymore, gone from his line of sight, because now his eyes are fixed instead on the ceiling above him. Napoleon notices the dusty cobwebs above, clearly signs of an abandoned warehouse. Yes, that is where they are. That is where they had taken Illya just like the information received from UNCLE’s intel. 

But Illya. Where is Illya? Napoleon could hear groans of muffled pain and then a gunshot. A few gunshots in fact. God, he hopes Illya is all right. He has got to be. Because he cannot afford to lose him. No, not his partner. Not Illya. What is happening? Napoleon groans.

“Peril?” Napoleon croaks, his voice broken, calls out to him, and then, “Illya?”

Napoleon is not sure how long he had lain there but then Illya appears again before him, his face hovering above his, a look of utter distraught in his eyes. And blood. He has blood all over him. Too much blood.

“You—you are shot?” he asks Illya weakly. “Your arm—”

“I’m fine, Cowboy. I’m fine.”

Illya’s hands are on his face, in his hair. He tries to stay calm but is soon defeated when Napoleon starts to lose consciousness. 

“Cowboy? You hold on, you must hold on. You will be okay. I’ll get you help, I’ll get us out. Gaby will be here soon. But you stay with me! You hear me? Stay with me.”

“I’ll try,” Napoleon murmurs. 

He feels the wet warm feeling of blood (is it blood?) all over his shirt, on the floor underneath him, and Illya’s hands on him, Illya’s hands are bloodied. Blood, there is too much blood. But whether it’s Illya’s or his own, Napoleon cannot tell. His mind is drifting off fast, his vision blurry and something warm and coppery tasting starts to trickle from the side of his mouth. He feels Illya trying to lift him off the floor, but then he screams in pain, grasps weakly at Illya’s arm.

“No, don’t—it hurts. Don’t.”

Illya mumbles some kind of apology, smooths his hands on Napoleon’s face. “I’m sorry, Solo. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Peril,” Napoleon smiles at him despite the pain, “we have had the best of times, didn’t we?”

“Don’t say this,” Illya chokes.

He wants to put pressure on the entry wound but he cannot do that without moving his partner. When he sees Napoleon’s eyes are closed, Illya really starts to panic.

“Napoleon? Napoleon! Please, stay with me! You hear me? Stay with me! Don’t you dare go!”

Napoleon blinks blearily at Ilya’s pleadings. The Russian seldom calls him by his first name, only does that when he wants his utmost attention. He hums his acknowledgement although the effort to stay awake is starting to get extremely hard and moments later, all Napoleon can remember is hearing Illya’s frantic cries, his panicked voice close to his ear, his face, feels his lips on him, and then all he sees is black.

 

***

 

Gaby and UNCLE’s cavalry arrives at the scene ten minutes later but nothing could ever prepare Gaby at the scene that awaits her.

The three dead bodies sprawled all over the room is nothing compared to the sight of Illya holding on to Napoleon’s limp bloodied body, the Russian catatonic like, even when the medics had tried to pry Napoleon away from his hold and even later when Gaby tries to console him, saying soothing words into his ear. The scene is too tragic, too heart wrenching. And it is something Gaby will not be able to forget. 

On the way to the hospital, she prays with all her might that Napoleon will pull through because if he does not and if she were to lose him, Gaby knows very well that she will lose Illya as well. 

And that thought is too horrific to imagine.

 

***

 

“I’m sorry it took us so long to find you, Illya.”

“It is not your fault.”

“The bullet on Solo, it narrowly missed his heart, lodged in his back muscle, a less dangerous place than we’d feared. So you know he is going to be fine, right?”

Illya turns his face to look at Gaby. 

She looks tired and worried like she has not slept in days but there is still defiance in her eyes. She believes Napoleon will pull through despite flatlining once during his surgery. Illya almost lost his mind when Gaby had told him that, and had crashed literally down to the floor in relief moments later when the doctors later told them they had managed to somehow, miraculously, revive Napoleon. 

As he leans back against the wall behind him, Illya feels the powers that be are giving them a second opportunity so that whatever needs to be spoken between Napoleon and him could be said. There could be no other reason to the miracle that Illya’s been given. He grimaces at the thought that Napoleon had actually stopped breathing, had left him alone for those few precious minutes, and Illya never wants to go through it ever again. 

“You’re lucky that bastard only got you on your arm, Illya. If not, I’d have to see you both on hospital beds and that’s something I’m not cut out for.”

Gaby gestures at Illya’s bandaged right arm and he just shrugs at it and shakes his head. “Flesh wound. Is nothing.”

“But it’s something to me, because you’re important to me too. You hear me?”

Illya nods and then lets out a ragged breath. 

“That man, he hurt Napoleon.”

“I know, but he’s dead, Illya. You don’t need to worry about him. He can’t hurt you or Napoleon anymore,” says Gaby as she tries her best to comfort Illya who is clearly still upset.

“I do not think losing Cowboy is an option I could take. You know what I mean?” Illya says quietly as he grabs Gaby’s hand and holds it tight in his.

Gaby smiles, puts one assuring hand on his arm. “I know, Illya. I’ve known that for a long time in fact.”

“And you did not say anything about it.”

Gaby hums at the slight pout Illya’s making.

“I did not say anything because both of you are impossibly stubborn. So there is just no point for me losing my breath, trying to make you see regarding matters of the heart. Just not worth it.”

“I—I care about that man,” Illya chokes. “You will not believe how much.”

“That man? Oh, you mean Solo?”

Illya tries his damnedest not to roll his eyes at Gaby's mocking. “Yes, Solo. Who else is lying in emergency room right now?”

When Gaby does not say anything, Illya asks her again. “You believe me?”

“Oh, I do believe you, Illya. But it’s so much more than just caring for Solo, isn’t it? And you know it too.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Gaby stamps down hard the urge to scold Illya. But when the Russian slowly quirks a grin, Gaby gives him a disapproving frown before rolling her eyes at him. “You will tell him when he wakes up.”

“Maybe.”

“Illya!”

“I will try.”

“If you don’t I will tell him myself!”

Illya finally relents to Gaby’s insistence with a nod. Despite feeling a little embarrassed that Gaby had seen him at his lowest, the only person who had seen him that way, Illya is grateful. She had made him see what Napoleon really is to him, what he actually means to him. And Illya hopes he would be able to tell Napoleon soon himself.

 

***

 

When Napoleon blinks his eyes open, he knows he is clearly in a hospital, what with the too white sheets on him, the bland walls of the room and that unmistakable antiseptic smell, and when he turns his head slightly, he finds Illya sitting beside his hospital bed looking worse for wear. 

The Russian looks tired and troubled, dark circles under his eyes, and his usually neat hair is ruffled with strands of hair falling across his forehead. He also notices that his right arm is bandaged. Napoleon tries to recall why that is so and why he himself is on a hospital bed. He racked his brains, and then after several heartbeats, he remembers. There was a warehouse. And Illya and he tied up to a chair with himself getting beaten over and over. And Dimitri. Yes, Napoleon remembers Dimitri. 

And he had his mouth on him. 

Now that is something Napoleon wants to forget. 

Closing his eyes, Napoleon then tries to call out to Illya but finds it difficult to find his voice. 

And Illya, he is still not aware that Napoleon has woken up, his eyes fixed on the heart monitor at his side, the beeping tone of the machine the only sound that could be heard in the room at the moment. Illya’s visibly trembling hands are on his lap, looks like he is muttering something to himself and as Napoleon continues to stare at his friend, he realises he has never seen Illya acting like that before. 

“Peril, hey, you okay over there?” Napoleon finally croaks after a few valiant tries, his voice all raspy and dry.

Illya’s head jerks at the sound of Napoleon’s voice. He stands and then at once he is on Napoleon, his large hands on Napoleon’s face. There is a mix of absolute relief, anger, and even frantic in Illya’s eyes and the look starts to worry the American. 

“What did I do wrong this time? You look like you’re mad at me or something,” Napoleon asks. 

Illya simply cannot find the right words to say to his partner at the moment. He is relieved Napoleon has finally woken up after days of waiting by his side, but at the same time he also wants to reprimand the man for making him worry, for almost making him lose his mind when he thought Napoleon had ‘left’ him. And it all had happened because of Illya. 

“Illya?” Napoleon says, tries again when Illya remains silent. His face is still held between the Russian’s hands and even if he does not mind it, Napoleon still wants to know what is going on in Illya’s head. His curiosity, however, is soon answered when Illya leans down to press his lips on his eyes, his cheeks and then finally, on his mouth. Napoleon gasps at the contact and returns the almost chaste kiss. When Illya’s warm mouth leaves his own, Napoleon’s eyes swim with questions that are wreaking his head.

“Illya? What was that for?” he asks, a little confused but Illya shakes his head, puts a finger to his lips. 

“Don’t need to ask,” Illya says, leans down again after that to kiss him again.

And after Illya finally stops ravishing Napoleon’s face with kisses, his fingers brush back the hair on Napoleon’s forehead, starts running them through his luscious curls. Napoleon’s eyes eventually fall shut to the heavenly treatment he is receiving from Illya although he is still uncertain what he had done to deserve them.

“If I always get this from you every time I get shot, I don’t mind it at all, Peril,” he says and that finally brings Illya out of his stupor.

“You had died on me, Cowboy. Do you know that? Your heart stopped. You left me.”

Napoleon’s eyes immediately widen. He remembers distinctively getting shot, remembers the agonising pain flaring all around his body. But everything else that had happened after that does not register in his brain.

“Who shot me, was it Dimitri?” he later asks after what Illya had told him sunk in. 

The mere mention of Dimitri’s name sends a burning rage through Illya’s body and Napoleon could feel the tremor in his partner’s hands. He brings one hand to steady it, the one grasping his right cheek. “It’s okay, Illya. Let’s not talk about him, okay? Let’s forget what’d happened.”

“I need to tell you,” Illya mutters lowly. He turns his face away from Napoleon, stares at the heart monitor that shows the steady beeping of Napoleon’s heart once again. “He had shot you. And I killed him. I shot him, Cowboy. I shot Dimitri, and his men too. All of them. Even the dead one. I had to. After what he did to you. I had to.”

Napoleon could only imagine the carnage in the room at what Illya had done, suddenly worried if it would land him into trouble.

“Waverly?” Napoleon questions, “What did he say about all of this?”

“He says matters are taken care of, although not very happy at what you did, Cowboy.”

Napoleon looks confused. “Me? What did I do?”

“You disobeyed his orders!”

Illya immediately felt sorry for raising his voice at Napoleon but then the American just smiles at Illya. It looks like the Russian had found out what he had done. He meekly admits to his mistake but tells Illya he does not regret his actions one bit.

“I had to do it, Peril. You know I had to.”

“You—you,” Illya stammers, pauses, and then just exhales. “I don’t know what to do about you, Cowboy.”

“Let’s forget about the entire thing, shall we?” says Napoleon instead but Illya refuses to dismiss it easily. 

“But—what he did to you. I’m sorry, I should have—”

He could not bring himself to complete the sentence and Napoleon is quick to assure Illya it hadn't been his fault.

“Peril, don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault. It’s okay. Hey, Illya, look at me.”

At his gentle urge, Illya’s blue eyes return on Napoleon and the American’s lips quirk into a small, assuring smile. “Not your fault.”

Illya nods and then his hand tightens on Napoleon’s face before leaning his head down, his forehead almost resting on Napoleon’s. Then with a soft smile, Illya mutters against Napoleon’s lips 

“Doctors say you can leave hospital once everything is stable.”

“Okay, that’s good to know,” Napoleon replies. His eyes are closed again. But there are still questions swirling in his head.

“Hey, so can I ask you something? We’ve never really kissed before this. I’m quite sure of that unless my brain had been permanently damaged after I’d gotten shot.”

“Cowboy—” Illya starts, tries to cut the rambling American off but Napoleon is quicker this time, puts a finger on Illya’s lips.

“What changed?”

Illya considers his words, on how he wants to convey what he feels to Napoleon, and then he just smiles before sitting down on the chair once again. Napoleon gives him a confused look.

“Illya?” 

“I’ll tell you once you get yourself out of here. So you get better soon, Cowboy.”

Despite his condition, Cowboy still talks too much. Maybe this will quieten him up. Somehow Illya’s plan had worked and Napoleon is rendered speechless. But it only lasts for a few seconds because then he starts talking again.

“Illya?”

“Yes?”

Napoleon lifts an eyebrow at him.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No. I’m not. I’m serious.”

Napoleon glares at Illya but it comes out more like a sad pout than anything else. He tries to search for something in the Russian’s eyes, and maybe he already knows what Illya wants to say, but it will be much nicer if he could draw the words from his mouth. 

But whatever it is, Napoleon is willing to wait. After what had happened, anything else for Illya would be worth it. 

 

***

 

When Gaby comes into Napoleon’s room that evening, she finds Illya asleep on the chair beside Napoleon’s bed, his body slumped forward resting on top of Napoleon’s sleeping form with their fingers entwined together and Gaby thinks only her boys could give her such extreme sights to behold.

This, however, definitely cancels out the awful one from the warehouse. 

And Gaby is eternally grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Susangel who is so kind to send words of encouragement and also requested for a HurtNapoleon/CaringIllya fic. I hope this fits the bill for you :)
> 
> Note : Title is borrowed from Third Eye Blind's song 'Semi Charmed Life'


End file.
